Truth Burns; Smoke Occludes [PK]

[StingyParrot 1595]

 

Truth Burns; Smoke Occludes

 

Letters find their way to the halls of Tor’Urldar and Dun Moindamnh. They are crude parchment, yet the letters upon them are written with a steady, yet somehow rushed hand. 

 

Letter I - Dun Moindamnh

 

I have been captured by a group of Higher Vampyres; so far as I can tell, at least. They plan to ritually execute me within three days, and have heeded my last request to write out some letters. If you have this, then they trusted the first part of their agreement. At the same time, if you have this, I am almost definitely dead, unless I show up to confirm otherwise.

 

I have not been a very good grandfather, at least in my eyes. I put too much focus upon keeping our family safe and not enough on keeping us happy. My work often took me far from Petra for months at a time. I’m not writing to excuse myself, though. Hopefully, the servants will have received some packages containing items I wish to pass on. My body will likely not be returned to you, though. If I am reincarnated and you encounter my corpse, do not hesitate to strike it down.

 

Alma and Alford - I feel I have neglected you two the most, Alford perhaps more so than Alma. I so very wish I had more time to spend with you two, but the time I did manage to find imparts comfort upon me now. You two are House Reinhold’s future, and I am confident that either of you will lead the House well. 

 

Savannah - I spent the most time with you for training, and I did not pause to ask about your wellbeing beyond the physical. I will, of course, not be able to teach you magic, but Guildmaster Lothric did give his approval for you becoming a Scion, and as Sir Rowan has returned, you may be able to find a path with him. 

 

Caz - I fear that my death will not affect the state of things for the House very much because of how little time I spent with it. You handled everything I could not, even when some of those things were my duty as Count before abdication. I love you still, and always will, be it to the Hells or the Skies I go.

 

To the House Guardsmen - That black-armored fellow is still abroad. Strikes at night, and our most recent clash revealed that he’s learning to use chain-weapons much like how I did. If you would hunt him, change tactics every single time, for he can and will mimic them. 

 

Letter II - Tor’Urldar

 

I have been captured by a group of Higher Vampyres; so far as I can tell, at least. They plan to ritually execute me within three days, and have heeded my last request to write out some letters. If you have this, then they trusted the first part of their agreement. At the same time, if you have this, I am almost definitely dead, unless I show up to confirm otherwise. I am in //////////// [This word has been scratched out] if the courier somehow makes it there fast enough for there still to be time. I think it’s somewhat morbidly amusing that both Urendil and a student of his - me - are leaving these halls, if for a different reason.

 

I have little else to say now, save for that

Truth Burns,

Smoke Occludes.

 

[ProcaPro 557]

Alma received the letter with a smile, having paused from making new friends to do so. Her smile faded quick. Another person gone from her life without so much as a final word to her. Another, right after a fight. Maybe that's why he never wrote her back.

However guilty it made Alma all she could think was truly how foolish her grandfather was. What should have been grief was hollow, and bitter.

 

Perhaps she was cursed. 

[Rhettthecoldone 252]

Along the Westernmost valleys of Petra did Alford linger, sat atop a large boulder that had been painted with various sheets of a thick moss. In the distance wandered his loyal horse, which chewed at the tall shrubs about. The bird had already arrived in tandem with his grandfather’s letter, of which he had already read the contents of.

 

The sun, which yawned in shades of purple, pink, and orange, warmed him in whatever strange amalgam of emotion he felt. He didn’t know his grandfather as he thought he should’ve, but regardless, he clung to little moments he shared with the man. A puzzledness set within him, one that begged the question of Alford’s absence of tears.

 

And as the golden sun was lulled to a deep sleep by the silver moon, he too lay to rest upon the rock he sat, dreamless and confused with the shame his dry eyes brought him.

[Sonybut7 530]

 

⧲────────────⟪ R U I N ⟫────────────⧲

RUIN

⎝ 𓆩༺                     The Ancient Old Protocol                     ༻𓆪 ⎠

 

Deep, within the hallowed halls of Tor’Urldar, a Herald sharpens his blood-stained blade. His ash-covered armor and gore lathed scabbard sung songs of WAR yet passed. And songs of RUIN yet to come. There, deep within the halls, did he read upon the letter. Another brother fell, beneath the face of the dark. Yet so equally, did the Herald lose no hope. For his grip remained strong, and the sharpening of his blade remained.

 

What is the outcome you desire?

 

Each strike of whetstone upon metal, cast sparks flying off. Each precise, yet so equally toiled with the rage he felt within his heart. Each strike of whetstone, so equally fueled and cast by the emotion within. To allow it to move, and fuel his DESIRE. First, they had lost Telemachus, then Urendil stepped away, and now Capric had as well.

 

Can anything stop it?

The Cycle of Cause and Effect?

 

For they had shared laughter, and had shared the field of battle. And so it was only natural that a singular response would be held upon the foul-ilk that cast a brother back into the cycle. Our Fire is the one that never fades, and so the Herald set off into the ashlands, riding upon his mighty boar, NEFELI THE NINTH. Ash of the fallen brothers covered his shoulders, their Flame, emboldened by those who came before.

 

Our purpose standeth unchanged.

Those foul, ruinous creatures shall all meet death.

In the embrace of The Great Titan’s Flame.

 

──𓆩𖤓𓆪──༺ ۝ ༻──𓆩𖤓𓆪──

 

Edited January 6 by Sonybut7

[Jentos 9422]

 

 

𐏓𒋻𒑚𒔼𒀼 𒈦𒀂𒀼 𒐕𒐖𒐕𒌒𒑚𒐕𒈦𒆸𒑚𒔼, 𒈦𒀂𒀼 𒇬𒀼𒇲𐎣𒐕𒁓𒐕𒆸𒑚𒔼, 𒈦𒀂𒆸𒔼𒀼 𒀂𒆸𒔼𒈦𒐕𒁇𒀼 𒈦𒆸 𒈦𒀂𒀼 𒈦𒀼𒋻𐏓𒀂𒐕𒐖𒋝𒔼,

 

Cause the iniquitous, the perfidious, those hostile to the teachings,

 

𒈦𒆸 𒁀𒀼 𒇲𒀼𒁓𒑚𐏓𒀼𒁓 𒈦𒆸 𒋻𒔼𒀂, 𒁇𒐕𒐞𒀼 𒁓𒇲𒌨 𒋝𒇲𒋻𒔼𒔼 𐏓𒆸𒐖𒔼𒑚𐎠𒀼𒁓 𒐕𒐖 𒋻 𐎣𒐕𒀼𒇲𒌨 𒁀𒁇𒋻𒑣𒀼,

 

To be reduced to ash, like dry grass consumed in a fiery blaze,

 

𒔼𒉼𒐕𐎣𒈦𒁇𒌨 𒇲𒀼𒐖𒁓 𒁓𒆸𒉼𒐖 𒀼𒇲𒋻𒁓𒐕𐏓𒋻𒈦𒐕𒆸𒐖, 𒈦𒀂𒀼𒐕𒇲 𒇲𒑚𒐕𒐖, 𒉼𒀼 𒇬𒇲𒋻𒌨!

 

Swiftly rend down eradication, their Ruin, we pray!

[mothsthetic 2250]

The young Silasian boy from so long ago had grown into a fine young man, even if he had not been there to see it. But he carried himself like a warrior, held himself like a fighter, with that same familiar exhaustion on his shoulders. But it wasn't supposed to be like this. Not yet. All the same, with a heavy heart, the late Count welcomed his grandson into the skies with open arms and quiet words.

 

"Welcome home."

[Hom 1987]

The grand keep of Dùn Mòindamh was, for all its stone walls and measured fortifications, a home. Caz had always made sure to keep it that way, full of light and warmth, a respectable amount of clutter and the smell of good food. A product of love, they always thought. House Reinhold had always been a product of love.

No amount of deliberate homeliness could keep out the icy chill that settled over the walls of Anairgrid when the letters arrived. The excitement of seeing their husband's handwriting had quickly turned to a frozen fear as the words crept into Caz's veins, more sensation than knowledge, more feeling than reading. And oh, they knew how the others felt. They saw the cold, quiet hurt and confusion on the faces of their daughter, their grandchildren. It may have been ironic to the others, that Caz considered what they and Capric built together a product of love. They knew well that Capric was not always seen as loving. It had been the last thing they talked about, before Caz kissed him on the cheek and did not join him for a final hunt. I'll talk to her. I promise. I know you care about her. It's like a stab of regret, every time they think of it. They thought there would be a hundred other hunts, a thousand other hunts. Why did they not simply join him? Why did they let him walk off alone into that night?

The house is freezing, and Caz is aflame. It is grief in its most active and vicious form- They find themselves in the deep of the woods where they cannot be heard and they scream, and they claw, and they swear, and they cry until their throat is raw and their joints ache. They let the cold rain soak them to the bone, and they burn with an anger only loss can bring. They simmer in it, alone, because they cannot blame their family for not understanding, for not knowing what Capric would not let them see. Caz had seen it all. Earnest excitement masked as a quiet smile, nervousness unbefitting a warrior of his skill as their fingers interlocked, young and foolish and deeply, quietly, truly in love.

They remembered listening to him speak, voice raspy and still-healing, about magic and monsters and the wonders of the world. They had seen awe turn to paranoia, turn to guardedness, and they had brushed the blood and dirt from his cheek. You fight the battles out there. I'll fight the battles in here. Caz watched every time he left, with the unwavering faith he would return.

He may not have shouted it from the rooftops, but Caz never needed that, never wanted that. They were loved. Unconditionally, without question, without need to speak it into poetry or paint it on a canvas. The sort of love that formed a foundation, on which a life was built.

"I fear that my death will not affect the state of things for the House very much."

Loving you was the brick and mortar of our life. The House lives on, and my home is cracking at the roots.

"You handled everything I could not."

I wanted to. God, I wanted to. So you could go out in the world and do what I know you were born to do. I knew you would die doing it, someday. But somehow I never thought it would be tomorrow. Always a year from now, five years, ten years. Never tomorrow.

"I love you still, and always will, be it to the Hells or the Skies I go."

I love you. I will find you. I will deliver you.

- - -

And should Capric's soul make it to the skies, there would be a hand against his cheek to greet him, so much like when he was a round-faced young boy. Soft wrinkles crease the smile-worn corners of warm, dark eyes. Everything is sun-touched and at peace here. When he beams, it is with pride and joy undeniable.

"What a life you lived, my boy. What a life!"

[Neder 48]

Amelia skimmed over the letter after her daughter, Alma, had handed it to her over the counter. For just a moment, she felt her heart skip a beat. A hand is placed onto the countertop as she reads over the letter again, then another time, more and more carefully with each paragraph. Her shoulders slumped as exhaustion suddenly kicked in, a pained sigh escaping her lips.

 

Her first thought - "Dear God, poor Caz..."  finding her second old man suddenly became a priority, largely due to worry.

The second - "Thirty two years as my father, no mention of me."  for a brief moment, she found herself hurt. Genuinely, painfully hurt.

The brief tinge of emotion allowed her another thought, one she chose not to speak aloud.

"Thanks for nothing."

[Destructokeith 1142]

Upon the ashes of the fallen the Herald speaks, a flow of draconic words filling the air, fire twisting around the kneeling figure.

 

The sun would rise and set again and still the Herald prays, not for saftey, nor a swift retun of his brother and not even for power...

 

instead Artair prays for RUIN